My name is Ananya Sharma, and I am 30 years old. I used to think I would be alone all my life. Three years ago, after surgery at AIIMS in New Delhi, the doctors told me I could never become a mother.

That news crushed me completely. At that time, my boyfriend of five years—Rohan—was silent all evening, and the next day he sent me just one message:

“Sorry. Let’s call it quits.”

After that, I stopped thinking about wedding dresses. Until I met Kabir.

Kabir Malhotra was seven years older than me, the new branch manager who had just taken charge at my office in Gurugram. He was polite, calm, and had smiling eyes. I admired him but kept my distance. How could a man like him choose a woman like me, who couldn’t have children?

Still, he reached out to me. On nights when he worked overtime, he would bring me hot lunch boxes or warm khichdi. During cold days, he quietly left a packet of ginger tea on my desk.

When he proposed, I cried. I had accepted my condition fully. But he just smiled and patted my head:

“I know. Don’t worry.”

His family had no objections either. His mother—Savita Malhotra—came to my house in South Delhi to formally ask for my hand in marriage, everything arranged. I felt like I was dreaming, thinking that God must have loved me so much that He gave me this blessing late.

On the wedding day, I wore a red lehenga and sat holding Kabir’s hand in the soft yellow light of a small hall in Hauz Khas, listening to the tune of the shehnai. Seeing his gentle eyes, I cried.

That wedding night, I sat before the mirror and removed all my hairpins. Kabir came in, took off his sherwani, and placed it on a chair. He came to me, held me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder.

“Tired?” he asked softly.

I nodded, my heart pounding.

He took my hand and led me to the bed. Then he lifted the blanket. I was stunned…

We were not alone in the bed. There, asleep in deep slumber, was a small boy of about four years old, with chubby cheeks and long, curled eyelashes. He was hugging an old teddy bear tightly.

I stammered and turned to him:

“This is…”

Kabir gently sighed, stroking my hair:

“This is my son.”

I was speechless. He sat by his son, his eyes full of tenderness and love:

“His mother was my ex-girlfriend, Meera. At that time, her family was poor, and her grandmother was seriously ill. Meera had dropped out of school to work various jobs. When she got pregnant, she didn’t tell me. When the child was two years old, she died in an accident. That’s when I found out I had a son. For the past few years, the boy lived with his grandmother in Jaipur. Now that she has passed away, I’ve brought the child back.”

He looked deeply into my eyes, his voice choked:

“Forgive me for not telling you earlier. But I need you. I need a mother for my son. And I want a complete family. Even if you can’t give birth, as long as you love him, that’s enough for me. I can’t lose you.”

Tears streamed down my face, warm and uncontrollable. I sat on the bed and reached out to stroke the child’s hair. He stirred slightly, his lips moved, and he called out in his sleep:

“Mom…”

I broke down sobbing. My heart felt like it was breaking. I looked at Kabir, whose eyes were filled with fear—fear that I might leave.

But I couldn’t go. I nodded slightly:

“Yes… from now on, I will have a son.”

Kabir hugged me tightly. Outside the window, the moon shone brightly in the Delhi sky, illuminating the small apartment room in Saket. I knew that from now on, my life was entering a new chapter.

I may not be a mother by birth, but I can be a mother with love. And for me, that happiness is enough